


My Rock and Salvation

by SuzumePaige



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bears, M/M, Missionary Position, experiments in lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzumePaige/pseuds/SuzumePaige
Summary: John Winchester isn't the type of salvation that any man should wish for.





	My Rock and Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved Dean and Sam but the generation of hunters that came before them were special in their own right-- John and Jim were both so fundamentally and irreparably broken that all their jagged pieces fit together too well for me to ignore.

Jim has a quiet life. He has a house that's mostly tidy, neat rows of books on shelves and a laundry line in the backyard where he hangs the black pants and black shirts of his trade. He also has a church; it's a quaint little three-storey building with vaulted ceilings, wooden kneelers and an armory in the basement. 

Once a day for a few hours he's in the church, straightening up and taking confessions for those people of Blue Earth, Minnesota who have cursed, or cheated, or gambled in the last week. On Sundays he leads two masses, breaking the body of Christ and giving the assembled a chance at salvation. He eats the bread too, even though for him salvation is a little harder to come by. 

Instead of holding onto a bible, or a gun (either of which might save him) Jim clutches at the headboard of his bed and doesn't notice the way that it crushes his fingers against the wall every time John thrusts against him. This is not quiet, it's not neat, and it's sure not saving his soul. John's body, bigger than his, wider, and a little rougher, encloses him. Fits around him. Jim's skin itches at the feel of John's chest hair scratching against the sweat covering his back. 

Jim knows. Just because he's never had a woman, just because he picked the Lord instead of a white picket fence and a Wife, that doesn't mean he can't see why John shows up when he does. Because even without a dual-tax file, Jim is still a man. He understands need as well as the next and he understands that he won't ever look like Mary, or smell like Mary, or sound like Mary.

All of this would be one thing, maybe, if it were dark outside and they were hiding. But sunlight pushes all the shadows out of Jim's bedroom and picks out the dust motes in the air that he must have missed on Tuesday when he cleaned. The light floods over the bed making the air hot and it seems to carry in the window the whoops and hollers of the two little boys playing outside while their daddy fucks the pastor into the mattress. 

Rewind the sun then, back before it was so high or so hot. Dean and Sammy file through the kitchen on their way to the derelict barn out back and John Winchester fills a seat at the table, fills the whole table with his presence. For the handful of seconds it takes for the boyish racket of dares and boasts to wash out of the house, John's silent and Jim finds a mug and pours coffee because he doesn't keep anything stronger in the house. Maybe once Dean's a teenager he'll have to worry about the wine he stocks in the vestibule, but not with John. 

"What was it?" The mug makes a quiet noise against the cheap plastic top of his table and Jim watches John's face as the seated man makes a valiant attempt to sweep away the lines that permanently crease him. It's a struggle he'll never win and in the end he stops trying.

John doesn't touch the coffee. "A Strega." Jim's lips thin and without thinking he glances out through the house the way the boys had gone. The shattering of the mug he'd handed John (a flea-market catch, the white porcelain selling plumbing services to no one, now) against the wall turns Jim back to here and he watches coffee stain his wallpaper and puddle on his floor. 

"They're both fine," he says, reminding John.

The other man stands, chair scraping back against the floor. It might have been a nice gesture if he would have gotten something to clean up the mess with but Jim thinks that John's far from his housekeeping days. He's pretty sure that it's Dean who keeps clothes from getting stiff with dirt and dishes on the right side of hygienic. 

Leaning on the counter edge, head hung, John is silent. Silent, but never quiet – the air around him hums and Jim wonders if he hadn't put all his eggs in God's basket if maybe he'd be able to see the crackle of electricity around the man, clear as day. Though maybe gospel-reading and aura-reading aren't mutually exclusive. 

That prickle along Jim's skin told him one thing: Good Lord and father, he was going to get burned. He, and both those boys, and every other thing that crossed John Winchester's path. 

When John's teeth scrape against the column of his neck, Jim raises his chin. There should have been a _no_ there, but the way the other man's teeth catch on the stubble he hasn't shaved off this morning make Jim forget how the word sounds. Instead his brain fills with static and his dick fills with blood. Traitors.

His fingers curl into the sides of John's shirt, an old flannel that probably went through the Salvation Army – or the basement of Jim's own church – before it graced John's broad shoulders. Something rips and a growl curls out of John's throat. For the two heartbeats before the other man steps back, Jim is actually frightened of the hunter, unsure that John might not snap over something as trivial as a ripped seam.

"Let's get out of the kitchen," he just says, his eyes everywhere but on Jim's. The need to relocate is for the boys and thank God that John's thinking at least that much. The last thing those boys need is to catch their daddy fucking the word of the Lord out of Jim's lips. He nods mutely and runs a hand over his mouth before pointing vaguely toward the other room. 

It's amazing how even his voice is when he speaks. "You know the way." Of course he does. Ever since that first time when John had rolled through needing a babysitter and found a priest willing to listen, when Jim had offered a shoulder to lean on and given a body instead... He didn't count anymore the number of times they'd closed his bedroom door behind them. Wasn't any reason to. 

Now he follows John, hating that he feels both awkward and anticipatory. Jim raises his eyes to watch the shift of John's body beneath that ugly flannel, coiled and waiting for a day that might never come. One of the first and the hardest lesson that he had to learn as a priest was that he can't fix everyone. God and advice can only take some men so far. John's so broken that there's no way he'll ever fit back together, just pieces of a man held together by two little boys and a skewed sense of justice. Jim hopes that he helps more than hurts, but who knows. He's trying hard not to bring God into this one anymore. At least, not after they reach the landing.

The bedroom door creaks, giving them away. Jim watches John's shoulders, steady while he himself flinches at the sound. The lock turning over is louder, or maybe it's his heart as John shoves him back against the wall. There's never kissing and it's probably better that way. They aren't lovers; this is... it's...

Well, Jim isn't sure what it is. But his dreams about John are few and far between and it's only when he hears the growl of that car's engine pull down the drive does his blood start to pound a little harder than normal.

The pictures on the wall jump as John shoves him back, following after to pin him there, shoulders uncomfortable against wainscoting. Again teeth catch stubble and John's mouth sucks on the throb of Jim's pulse. It's louder now. Easy to find. 

His skin's hot, too tight. That hum that surrounds John is crawling onto him via mouth and the fingers caught on his hips, making Jim vibrate. His hips come up, only to be pushed back by John's body. A hard line of heated denim makes its presence known and Jim's head falls back, hitting the wall. John doesn't know or doesn't care; he's intent on neck and lower. Fingers will plant enough pressure today that by tomorrow bruises will have bloomed, purple and yellow, along the lines of Jim's hips. 

Flannel scrapes back over shoulders and John has to let go to untangle himself and let the shirt drop. He pulls his own undershirt off, a momentary disconnection of mouth and neck that lets Jim take one, two deep breaths. The body bared in front of him is broad, farmer's tan evident beneath the dark expanse of coarse hair and lines of hard-earned muscle. There's a lewd joke in there somewhere about farming and planting seeds, and Jim half grunts, half groans a pained laugh. When he opens his eyes John's staring at him with an intensity that always makes Jim glad to be on his side. He shakes his head and starts unbuttoning his own shirt; John looks away.

There's not much to compare, between the two of them. Jim preaches more than he hunts and John hunts a hell of a lot more than he believes. Jim is rituals and exorcisms; John is hunts and blood and... Well, John is a lot of things. Jim hasn't ever seen a hunter like him before. 

His shirt is hung sloppily over a bedpost. John undoes his pants as Jim closes his eyes. His body is still humming. There are no blowjobs, no whispered declarations made in fevered pitches. There is very little experimentation. 

Every time they do this Jim thinks that he should take the cross off his bedroom wall. 

Fingers curl around the back of the headboard as two sets of knees wear old sheets further toward retirement. The bed groans under the unaccustomed weight of two. He's gotten used to the pain of it, the initial stretch and burn. Gotten used to relaxing. John's not a foreplay sort of man. Not what this is about, anyway. 

The first time was awful. Jim had no use for condoms and he suspected that John didn't either. With gun oil in the house he wasn't sure what had possessed them to go for the shampoo, but the outcome hadn't been pleasant for either of them. In some sort of normal world, they might have laughed about it. As it was, Jim thought it a wonder that sex between them had ever happened a second time.

So Jim holds onto the head board and doesn't think about the cross hanging over his head as John rolls a condom on and palms Jim's ass like he's still playing football for the Marines. His hands are callused from a lifetime of triggers and the rough skin catches and drags over Jim's flesh, making him goosebump and shiver. The sensation doubles when a teeth-jagged thumbnail crosses the tender ring of his anus and Jim jerks, his knees sliding apart like an invitation. 

The condom's slick with some pre-applied lubrication, cool against his skin. It runs too high, then too low and Jim's muscles are tensing – a groan crawls out of his mouth, as breathless as he is. John's single hand on his hip tightens and nerves light up, running from that spot across Jim's entire body in a steady, throbbing pulse. John's teeth scrape his spine as the man's wrapped dick – the lubrication no longer so cool – finds the small ring of anticipating muscle. It spasms and John's breath crashes in a stutter out over Jim's shoulder blades.

Jim can feel coarse hair scratching his back. He can feel John's heartbeat, too, a determined surge and retreat. Teeth work the knobs of his spine. Sunlight heat slicks them with sweat that follows gravity and traces the lines of their bodies. None of that ever compares to the first breach.

His fingers have yet to be crushed by a rhythm; right now John's push is slow but inexorable. Jim hangs his head and breathes through the discomfort, the burn. Those physical sensations are second to the sheer feeling of intrusion. For a moment it fills all of Jim's awareness, packs into all of his corners, thick and tenacious. It is always alarming, but Jim has done this before, given himself over. He does it every day. Sweeping the pews. Taking confessions. Breaking the bread. It is Grace, being filled by another's presence. He breathes through it, accepting. 

When John begins to move Jim's knees slide again, fixing the angle. The first thrust makes him gasp and arch but the fingers on his hips keep him steady and soon enough he's moving back to meet each drive, the burn reaching through his whole body like a fever. Every now and again his dick bumps against his belly and the fluid it leaves is chill for a second against the heat of the rest of him.

Now his fingers take the beating, but Jim can't countenance being pushed face-down into his pillows. It's one thing to be filled, it's another to be dominated. When John pushes him, he pushes back. His fingers will survive it. 

Sammy's voice through the window makes John stiffen and still. Dean's follows, taunting something unintelligible from here. Jim wishes he'd closed the window. He's as still as John, feeling the crash of the man's heart against his back, each beat slick with sweat, the only thing moving. 

He's scared to say anything, uneasy about how John the man and John the father co-exist. Jim's not sure John's got the answer to that one either, more sure that these trysts are the only time he pushes those boundaries. 

But the voices fade back into pure sunlight and John's breath is as sharp as needles against his back. After that the rhythm jerks into something desperate and on the edge of loosing control. John fucks against him hard enough to make Jim hiss as the bones in his fingers protest. As his ass protests. The cross shivers on the wall.

Because John won't, Jim reaches down beneath himself. He doesn't wonder what a hand with a cold metal band on the ring finger would feel like doing the same. The tight tugs on his dick aren't as punishing as John's thrusts, but they bring him to the same end. Jim pants in ragged, raw pulls and works himself over, palm tightening around the bloated head every time John pushes deep into him. His balls draw up. 

He can tell that John is as close as he is; the pace is getting quicker, less of a back and forth now as it is a hard rocking. John is grunting against his back. Jim's hand smears oily fluid down just enough to fist himself in short little strokes until he comes with a choked sound, eyes closed tight as his body jerks forward and then back before the orgasm stiffens and contracts his muscles, leaving him still as he shudders and fills his hand. 

John's still fucking him, rocking deep and sharp into what he's been given. Before Jim can get loose-limbed, fingers are digging into his hips and holding him in place as the last brutal thrusts make him gasp. Then John is stilling, too, his noise of release more a vibration that Jim can feel in his chest and balls than any real sound. The condom prevents him from feeling much at all; there's a subtle throb that could be his abused rectum now that he's paying attention.

No foreplay, no cuddling. John pulls away and Jim can feel his body clench for a moment, trying to reassert itself, reclaiming its own spaces. He wipes his hand on his sheets and drops gingerly into a sitting position on the edge of the bed to look for his pants. John's already standing, pulling the condom off and tying it shut, unconcerned with his nudity. Jim stares at the man's socks for a moment, one ankle pushed down almost to the heel, worn to elastic ribbons in a place or two, before he looks away and leans over to collect his clothes and with them, himself. John does both faster.

In the kitchen Jim's cleaning up the coffee and mug shards when Dean and Sammy tumble into the house, laughing. John doesn't stiffen now; a gruff smile stretches beneath his beard as he leans to scoop his youngest son into his arms. Jim watches Sammy push his head under John's chin until Dean puts himself in the priest's line of sight. 

"Need help?"

Jim smiles and points to the broom and dustpan in the open pantry. "Always." 

For thirty-six hours the Winchesters hang their laundry on the line outside and help him make meals. The boys run and laugh and holler and John cleans weapons on the kitchen table, leaving gun oil and grit behind him.

But when they leave, the growl of the Impala faded away to nothing, the house feels empty instead of quiet. Barren instead of clean. Jim looks at the light brown stain on the wallpaper in the kitchen and wonders who was healing who. He wonders if that was his salvation, pulling away in a black muscle car, all loud engine and exhaust.


End file.
